


The Wilderness

by xagentofchaos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Comfort, Graphic Description, M/M, Masturbation, Panic Attacks, Self Harm, Steter - Freeform, Teen Wolf, dark!stiles, silly nicknames, stiles will change, vampire, vampire!Stiles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xagentofchaos/pseuds/xagentofchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one knows he's a vampire. Not even himself.</p><p>THIS FIC WILL NOT BE UPDATED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, I need you to know that english is not my native language and I've always had some difficulties with grammar. So if you find any mistakes, please tell me so I can edit. 
> 
> Also, I started writing this a couple of months ago but I haven't continued. I want to, but there's a lot in school and my personal life right now. So I don't know when the next chapter will be up. But I am in no way planning on abandon this fic. 
> 
> The title is inspired by a song by Voxhaul Broadcast named 'You are the wilderness'.

It’s the scent of blood that catches his attention when the sun made its way underground. A strong smell of copper, salt and fear runs through his nostrils and makes his mind go numb. Strong teeth sharp into his lip as he opens his window and jumps out. He lands easily on two legs, smelling the air; bringing every aroma into his body. 

He can see the girl from a distance, can feel her sharp breathing in his veins. He’s closing in as silent as he can, not letting her see him just yet. She looks lost with a hint of confusion on her average face and the breathing is like an eternal echo in his head. She’s carrying a bag on her back and a piece of paper in her hands, which she eyed a couple of times. Just by looking at her, seeing her joints tense and flex whenever a small sound is approaching in her presence, he’s starving. 

He roams closer, not letting her out of his sight; breathing heavily to haul every little inch of fragrance; the wet grass, the night’s warm air and the odor from the sweat crystals on her forehead. 

The half-moon is vibrating with light among darkened parts in the still pedestrian; giving the shadows a frightening look, almost like a horror story. She’d be the girl, soon running for her life, with panic rushing through her veins. And he’d hunt her down, sucking the life from her in a bloody mess, right in the middle of the road. 

He’s only an oak tree shadow away from her now and while she’s fiddling with her phone, he approaches; slenderly silent as a cat. 

“Are you lost?” he asks, watching her nearly jump out of her bones in shock, turning to him with a wild expression on her face. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her blood rushes deliciously to her face and she bits her slightly chapped lip. 

“No it’s fine, I just- I’m actually lost, yes.” 

“I can help you find your way, if you like.” He tries his hardest not to smile smugly, restraining the will to jump her right away. At first she’s watching him suspiciously, blue eyes searching for any hint of threat. Her left hand holds a piece a paper and the arm is used as a support for her right, which she uses to push the bangs of auburn hair away from her sight. She smiles weakly at him and hands the map to him. He’s about to ask why she uses an old-school map when she owns a smartphone but there is no need to get personal with a girl he’s about to kill. He collects the map in his hands and she points in the direction she’s heading but he’s only watching the veins from under her wrist. “You have beautiful hands”, he murmurs, mostly to himself but he receives a strange look from her. He jokes it away with a brief smile and looks down on the map. A red ring is marked down on an area just about hundred meters away from where they’re standing.

“Do you know where it is? I’m staying there with my friends until I get my own apartment.” She’s silent for a while. “I figured we might go in the same school later, so… I’m Kylie.” She gives him her hand and he can’t help but laugh and holds her hand in his own. It’s tanner, feminine and a bit fidgety due to his weird behavior. Her veins beneath the skin are various shades of blue and purple, winding up to her palm. 

“You should’ve run when I startled you Kylie. Not that you’d have a chance to run but because I have a thing for a taste of hunt.” He brings her wrist up to his face with force, watching her with intensity. And when his brown eyes turn black, she draws a hard breath to scream so he turns her back to his front and clamps his right hand on her mouth. “I could’ve gone soft on you but you always seem to make the wrong decisions.” The teeth sharpened teeth; hidden under his gum, penetrates the flesh on her neck. She lets out a muffled scream into his hand but he holds her still and all she can do is cry when he’s sucking her dry. 

~ * ~

The shrieking sound of an alarm clock is waking him up, with a loud scream, that morning. He draws a shallow shudder of breath and thumps back onto the pillow, when he’d shut the damn thing off. First day of school after a long summer holiday, is always the worst, but he forces himself up, even if he’s body and mind’s protesting. It’s when he’s sees himself in the mirror that he feels entirely awoke. Not because of his heavy eyelids that’s almost clamped together. Or the darkly, abysmal, bags underneath his bloodshot eyes. It’s the flecked trails of dried blood on his face; mostly from underneath his nose to his chin. He touches it slightly with his fingertips and winces when he tastes it. Yep, definitely blood. 

“I must’ve had the craziest nosebleed tonight”, he mutters to himself and goes to the bathroom to wash it off. 

On his way down he stops for a second at his dad’s work room. The walls are covered in newspaper articles, broken leads and bright red strings to messily connect them all. Almost every day, this semester, has it been a murder in our outside Beacon Hills. Both men and women, young and old, have been dried of blood, left for dead in the warm nights. And his dad, the sheriff, have been working constantly throughout summer but it doesn’t seem to lead anywhere. He’s as far away to a lead as he was when he started.  
Stiles grab his shoulder bag and rushes to school, even if pretty much everyone’s late on the first day. He meets up with Scott and they catches up with what they’ve missed (since they haven’t met in 48 hours). They both wishes for a calm year with no drama, kanimas or feisty alpha’s but as far as they know, it’s something that seem to be impossible in Beacon Hills. 

They’re just in time to hear Finstock yell insults at Greenberg (such as ‘I can’t say I hate you, but if you were on fire and I had water, I’d drink it’ and ‘Brains aren’t everything and in your case, they’re nothing’) when they get inside. Stiles slumps down on his regular seat and tries his best to listen, but his mind drifts off; away from school and back in time. Fights, lies and deaths leave traces and patterns on your mind and it’s like there’s flecks of darkness in his. He stumbles upon memories of Scott turning into a werewolf for the first time, the kanima, the alpha pack and… Derek. He tries his hardest not to groan out loud but he knows Scott heard him and Stiles can feel his eyes bore into his back, questioningly. 

He’d spent his whole summer occupied with normal teenage boy dude pal bro stuff and hasn’t let himself think of anything unimportant. And with unimportant he means stuff like Beacon Hills’ monsters and Derek. Who is in fact a monster. Who he’s slightly afraid of, to say the least. But now, when the serious life has begun again, he can’t run away anymore. He can’t hide his emotions in the bottle of a whiskey bottle, while him and Scott’s playing lacrosse and Lydia’s throwing the biggest holiday party ever (in which he finally got a laid with a brunette girl called Irene Abbott whose two years older than him and experienced like a million dollar whore. Not that Irene’s a whore because she wouldn’t take his money and didn’t let him call for more afterwards). He was relaxed and happy throughout summer. Nothing supernatural bothered either him or Scott (minus his werewolf tendencies) and nothing weird or scary happened. Apart from the brutal killings. But that didn’t seem to be a mission for Batman-Stiles and Robin-Scott (because there’s no way he’s Robin) so he couldn’t be bothered.

Except for now, he notices when Derek’s leaning against his car on the other side of the road, staring intensely at him and Scott. Figuring they have no other choice than to meet up with him, when lesson’s over, Robin-Scott drags Batstiles with him. Every single nerve in him is fidgeting, as they’re getting closer to their target. The first thing Stiles notice, a part from the always so sharp jawline and intense eye gaze, is Derek’s big but graceful fingers (that are shuddering a bit, even if it’s quiet hard to catch with a simple human eye). And suddenly he gets an intense wanting to suck them.

What the hell? Where did that thought come from all of a sudden? Sure, he’d always found Derek attractive but on a decent level. Not crossing any lines like now. 

Heat is forcefully rushing to his ears and he praise upon anything that the two werewolf’s won’t notice. 

“Yo Der-bear, Derekster”, he flaunts, wailing his arms like he’s insane. “Big D!” He can feel Scott’s shocked gaze on him and he has to force himself to stop before it gets really weird. “Big ol’ werewolf, alpha man. Bro.” You’re acting like a loved up teenager, a voice whispers in his mind. From a mental institution. 

“What’s up?” He raise his hand in a hood high five, waiting for Derek to clap it. “Don’t leave me hanging.” Derek’s definitely leaving him hanging, looking at him like he’s lost his mind. I’m not loved up, he growls at his inner voice. I’m fucked up. 

“You didn’t care to tell me that there have been murders in and outside Beacon Hills?” Derek growls at them (correction: Scott, he bluntly ignores Stiles). Scott murmurs something, clearly uncomfortable with the way Derek stares at him as if he also owns the power to burn the flesh off Scott’s skin. 

“We’ve had a summer holiday, D-bear.” Stop it now. “So we let the cops to their job, which is solving crimes. We’re only kids. In fact, if it bothered you so much, why leave in the first place?” That was partly a question he asks for his pack and Scott but also for himself. He won’t admit it to himself just yet; it took a lot of strength and anticipation but he couldn’t help to miss Derek during their holiday. Even if the alpha mostly ignored and threw insults at him; it’s the small movements that matter. Like the times he didn’t have to save him, or brush past him. Or put his hand on Stiles neck to make the small hairs rise; making his body quiver for more touches. 

“You think the murders resemble a simple serial killer?” Derek snarls, eyes flashing dangerously red. “This is supernatural, Stiles, and it’s our responsibility.” 

Stiles groan loudly, not even trying to hide his negativity. He pounds his head lightly against Scott’s upper arm and whines ‘why, why, why’ over and over again. Scott pats his head softly while giving Derek an apologetic look, mumbling a lie about Stiles taking a lot of Adderall this morning, then asking how Derek knows it’s supernatural. 

“Someone draining people of blood? Leaving marks on their bodies resembling teeth?” Derek has the face of a man who’s dealing with two four year olds who’s been denied eating cookies for breakfast. 

“A werewolf?” Scott tries. 

“No, a vampire”, Derek answers. Stiles laugh into Scott’s arm and pound his head harder, knowing that Scott can take it. 

“A vampire?” he wheezes. “You’re joking right? Is he joking, Scott? Tell me he’s joking.” He looks up at Scott who’s shaking his head visibly and Stiles groans again. “What’s next, unicorns?”

“There have actually been proofs of living unicorns in Antarctic”, Derek says bluntly. 

“Really?” 

“No, Stiles”, he growls. 

“I can’t believe this.” Stiles rubs his tired eyes with his fingers; trying to wipe the shock away. “Werewolf’s I can take. Kanimas too. Hell, even vampires. But you”, he points at Derek with his index finger. “You making a joke that didn’t even sound like a joke because you’re always so serious and grumpy, that I can’t take.” With that, he walks away with the sound of Scott’s echoing laughter behind him. 

 

~*~

 

They meet up with Derek and the rest of his pack at the warehouse when the first school day’s finished. The younger werewolf’s are already wildly discussing the new creature of Beacon Hills when they arrive. Both Derek and Peter are looking at them and Stiles opens his mouth to greet them but Derek cuts his words in half: “No more nicknames.” And Stiles sits heavily into the sofa next to Peter who gives him an amused face. 

“Not a word from you Peteypeterpumpkineater”, he warns and Peter just snorts. Scott joins the beta’s conversation; discussing whether they should kill the newbie or not and how they’ll do it. The alpha, his killer companion for an uncle and Stiles’ just listening in, although Stiles is more focused on his trembling hands, rather than taking interest. He picks at a loose thread on his red hoodie, twinning it between his index finger and thumb and crumbles it into a small ball. As he tosses it away, he drums his left fingers on the armrest, whistling lowly while he does it. 

He remembers his dream from the night; it suddenly pops up into his mind. He was hiding from something he couldn’t see. But he could feel it getting closer; its ice cold breath on his neck and corpse-like fingers holding a tight grip around his shoulders. It’s tugging him backwards, leading him into a foggy darkness; so thick that you can cut it with a knife. And there’s the smell, a musty mixture of salt and some sort of wet iron. It makes him choke and gag, wanting to run away. 

The thing is turning him around, letting him see where the smell comes from and he gasps. Three corpses of two men and one woman lays right on the misty grass, thick blood still running from their necks. He could still feel the heat from their body, as if they were murdered just a couple of minutes ago and the heavy smell makes his eyes blacken. 

When the creature with no face behind him pushes him down on the ground, right in front of the woman’s pale form, he feels a familiar feeling in his chest. Guilt. It feels like his heart is sagging down into nothingness, scraping the wet ground. And darkness is creeping in him; like he’s dead but he can still feel. He’d felt guilt a lot in his lifetime but had always thought it won’t be the end of the world even with a sharp lump in his throat. But this is different. He’d done something against his own standards; let himself down instead of the people around him. Usually it’s his father’s disappointed eyes whenever Stiles’ been lying straight to his face, but now it’s like he’s caught him lying to himself; hiding from the truth as long as possible. It’s culpability, a sense of inadequacy. And it hurts. It burns all the way into his core, like fire in his nerves. 

“This is you”, a growling voice whispers and it’s icy, filling him with cold and fear. “This is all you.” He tries to get away, tries to scream, kick and scratch; do anything but the creature is stronger than him. There’s nothing he can do, as he’s being pushed closer and closer down to the unmoving limbs; the smell of blood reeking the closer he gets and-

“Stiles!” The sudden change of scenery makes him jump high and he barely has time to choke back a scream. He stares at his friends with a wild look in his hazel eyes, mouth slightly opened and lungs heaving with short pauses. His head is throbbing painfully and his heart is pounding dangerously hard; as if it’s going to burst any second. He has to grab the sofa to not fall down into the everlasting darkness underneath him. The panic attack’s often come in unhandy situations and without any warning but he’s had them for so long now that he usually knows how to handle them. “Breathe, Stiles.” It’s Scott, he clarifies; tries to listen at his soothing voice to ease down the nerves. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Breathe.” He swallows down the thick lump and feels himself sinking further into the surprisingly hot and not so soft sofa. “There you go. It was just a panic attack, you’re okay.” 

He realizes that Scott’s behind him, hugging his body closely to his own and lets Stiles’ head fall back on his chest. It’s not just a werewolf-protecting-his-pack kind of thing but a movement Scott’s been using on him since they were young. It let Stiles know that he’s safe and his mind can calm down without any rush. 

“If the situation wasn’t so tense, I’d take a photograph to savior the moment”, he hears Erica mumble to his right and he can’t help but let out a weak laugh. Two of the beta’s breathes out in relief when realizing Stiles’ okay; he thinks it’s Isaac and Boyd. 

“What the hell happened?” He looks up from heavy eyelids and sees Derek stand in front of him with his arms crossed, looking tense with his alpha eyes shining with red. Stiles shrug his shoulders against Scott’s body.

“I don’t know, man, I just- I just remembered my dream from last night.” They’re all waiting for an explanation and he sighs. “It was about my mother.” All of them nods understandingly and continues talking about whatever they were talking about during his drug trip. He’s not sure why he lied but probably because it doesn’t matter what he dreamed or not. They have a lot on their minds anyway, figuring he’s unwilling to steal their focus to something less important. 

He watches Derek secretly as the alpha’s strolls around the warehouse; scowling, his muscles bulging perfectly under the black t-shirt, leaving nothing for guess. Body movements stiff; flesh flexing and veins bloats. It’s like he’s preparing for a hunt, a wolf scenting weaker pray and biding for its time. Stiles watch him in fascination, seeking for details in the werewolf’s hunter instincts; swallowing every rotary motion. He gets an abrupt sensation of being thirsty when Derek turns his back to them and Stiles lets his eyes wander up and down. From the broad shoulders, down to his scapulars, lower back and his muscly but round ass. If Stiles were about to drop a coin on it, it’d bounce up and down for an eternity. 

Derek’s licking his lips and says something Stiles can’t comprehend; he’s watching the alpha’s Adam’s apple bob when he swallows lightly. Suddenly Stiles’ mind goes blank and his mouth feels dry and he’s sure every single one in this room can hear his heart skipping several beats. Scott’s still behind him; Stiles can feel him shift to get a better look on Stiles’ face.

“Another panic attack?” he asks and Stiles shakes his head visibly, trying to talk but there’s knots in his throat, preventing him from even breathe normally. He can feel Derek’s eyes on him again and to his greater shock, he can also feel his dick getting harder in his pants. Stiles choke on panic, frantic to get away as soon as possible; desperate to not let anyone sense his hardening arousal. 

“I need to go”, he mutters and scoots up from the sofa, almost running to the door.

“Are you okay?” Scott shouts worryingly after him.

“I’m fine”, he answers without turning around due to his painfully throbbing erection in his trousers. “I’ll talk to you guys later.” 

As soon as he gets into his room and touches himself with the memory of Derek’s back turned to him, he comes in pulsating spasms, leaving him breathless on the floor. 

 

~*~

 

He’d never had orgasms like these before in his whole pubertal life. Every single one is making the limbs in his body shake for minutes as the heated sensation is flooding through him. But after the fourth time when his dick refused to slacken, he poured tons of lube on it and kept going. It’s a bit sensitive as he fists it, frantically; the skin around the glans a bit reddened. He’s holding his breath and pushes his head back on the pillow as the sensation shoots through him again. It keeps rising and rising so fast he has to hold onto the stained sheets, making desperate noises in the back of his throat; biting his lip, so hard it draws blood, to not scream out loud. But to not chew off his entire bottom lip, he picks up the pillow from his right and makes a loud sound into the fabric when he comes. 

He can barely breathe, he noticed. Only short, hollow ones which makes him lightheaded. In the end, it’s not about him violating his dick over the thought of Derek’s firmly ripped body pressed against him, preferably naked, it’s about him not being able to stop. He continues to get the arousal feeling in his diaphragm and his dick never softens, no matter how red and irritated the skin is. An annoyed whine slips through his slightly half open mouth and for a moment he wishes he was lying dead and naked in a morgue, perhaps then his dick wouldn’t be hard, still. 

 

As he dries himself off and goes to bed without taking care of his sixth erection (technically it’s his first since it never slackened), the sun was setting. The sky was painted an array of deep orange, red and pink; the clouds stretched long across the atmosphere viewed from his perspective, and faded in the pale glow of the moon that was beginning to show. Mystical shadows boasted through his dim window and brushed the walls, flirting heavily with his fingertips. He could almost feel the fresh glittering stars itch on his skin, leaving stardust moving underneath his flesh; making him smile. But a sudden traitorous thought speckles in his mind as the colorful sky fades and he turns away from his window, shuddering slightly against the cold matrass.

I will not survive this.

It’s full of anger and betrayal; making his joints tense. There is a meaning behind it; he can sense it through his flared nostrils but he’s not aware of it. He doesn’t understand it. It’s deeply embedded in his mind, buried behind sensitive nerves and old memories. There’s no guilt in his mind anymore, even if he used his mother’s death as a lie earlier today, but there is rage.  
It’s a feeling of being powerless and stressed out, heat boiling inside him and it’s making the blood rush through his burned veins. His whole body is shaking and he can’t see; black dots are occupying his eyesight but it helps him lie down in bed. A few minute’s passing until he falls asleep with a strong scent of copper in his room; probably from biting his lips to not scream out loud. And instead of brushing against him, the shadows begun to caress him; protect him from the darkness. 

 

~*~

 

The hunt is seemingly boring after two victims with its blood painting the sideway freshly red. Predatory eyes seek in the dim moonlight, penetrating the dead flesh with x ray sight. He smacks his lips, which still tastes strongly of blood and a slight hint of whiskey and motions further into town. The fallen leafs rustles on the broken asphalt; swirls around his feet. He picks one up and twins its dry body between his index finger and thumb, humming when it crumbles. Everything dies in the end, he thinks and continues to move forward with no exact goal, as if it’s supposed to make his worried mind calmer.

Another late out couple is making out on a bench ahead of him; swiping their tongues erotically on each other’s lips and neck. He can feel their arousals and need, through their heated skin, filling up the air with a lot of different smells. His own mind is going insane in comparison to their own and even if he can’t afford to lose himself to their taste, he strides closer. 

They haven’t noticed him yet, or they’re just too busy to even acknowledge his presence. It makes him smile. 

“Good evening”, he claims gently as his eyes turns darker and fangs grow out. Before he sharps through the dead boys’ girlfriend, he smiles apologetically at her and he knows, as his teeth hungrily penetrates her delicate skin, that she recognized him as a person; not a monster. 

 

~*~ 

 

“-and the fourth victim was Irene Abbott, you know the girl you- Stiles, are you listening?”  
Stiles hums when Scott went quiet, agreeing to everything that’s been told no matter what; as long as he can get at least a couple of minutes sleep. He’s just so tired. They’d suffered through a whole day in school, inhumanely long after two months of not sleeping at all. But suddenly a hand is grasping his hair and forces his head up and he’s just in time to see the table up close when his forehead’s bashed on it. 

“Ow!” he exclaims dramatically, wildly awake. “What the hell was that for?” which gets Derek to dig his fingers into his neck and pull him backwards so Stiles stares right into his frigid eyes. 

“Pay attention or I’ll turn you.” 

Stiles can’t help but laugh shallowly. “Is that a threat? Jesus, that’s lame.” And he reaches backward to pat Derek humoring on his shoulder but changes his mind when Derek flares his teeth and the alpha eyes pounders redly against the lens, growling murderously in Stiles’ face. “Okay, okay, okay, white flag.” He tries to straighten his chair but Derek still has his fingers around his neck, keeps him a position of tilting backwards. There is no use of concentrating on his balance since Derek’s doing that job, but he can’t help but concentrate on the fact that Derek’s touching him. Not like it’s the first time, so he shouldn’t react the way he does with nerves going crazy, but it’s different this time. Since he spent his whole afternoon jerking off with the thought of Derek naked. 

“Anyway,” Scott says slowly, giving Stiles’ an unreadable expression. “as I was saying, Irene Abbott, the girl you were with on Lydia’s party, is dead.” When Stiles hum in agreement, Scott raises to his feet. “What is the matter with you, dude?” 

“What? Nothing? I’m fine and dandy. Peachy.” He gave Derek’s arm a sloppy hit and fell forwards toward the bench but saved himself in the last second. He was probably crazy, but he could swear that Derek chuckled behind him. “In fact, I’m so fine that for the first time I’m satisfied with myself. Which leads to the conclusion that I have no so soul. A man with a soul is not satisfied.” Stiles are unsure he’d ever had so many wide eyes on him at once, and he’d done a lot of weird things in his life. You could easily hear a needle hit the ground in this silence. “I’m tired,” he whines and hides his face in his hands. 

“The girl you slept with is dead,” Scott tries again.

“For the better, probably, she never called me.” 

“Stiles!” 

“I’m joking, Scott, jeez.” He stood up and shook his body. Must be the Adderall, he thinks when a wave of nausea is hitting him, tumbling over brain cells and nerves, causing him to black out for a couple of seconds. Or minutes? He can’t keep track of time or anything else for that matter. The whole room is spinning, it’s like he’s standing on a boat with crazy waves rolling beneath it. Scott and Isaac are calling for him. 

Earth to Stiles. Are you okay? 

I don’t know. I don’t know. 

It’s the Adderall, it has to be. Why else would his muscles twitch and tremor? And why would he be so unexplainable tired? 

He feels weak; needs to sit down but he can’t find the chair. He looks down but there is no chair, nothing beneath or around him. 

Alone. 

Confusion. Where is everybody? Weren’t they here just now? Didn’t he hear Scott ask him if he’s okay just a couple of seconds ago? He looks around; his brain still throbbing like an impossible migraine; someone’s placed a nail on the inside of his brain, hitting it with a hammer over and over again. A sob breaks through his sore throat, like he’s been screaming without noticing.  
The black fog still being in front of his eyes, he reaches forward; tries to grab something to be able to hold his head up high. But there’s nothing there; he’s flailing in nothingness.  
And then he sees it. A pair of black eyes stares at him within his mind. They get closer, breaks through the dark; stepping into his safety area; which he didn’t know he had. And the closer it gets, the colder he’s feeling; like ice crystals injects his veins; drugging him with cold. 

It’s not the Adderall. 

It can’t be.

They’re right in front of him now, piercing through his pupils; making the inside of his brain burn with pain. He can’t breathe. Something’s blocking his trachea. He’s going to die; he can feel his body slowly giving up.  
Suddenly a sharp taste of blood’s prickling in his mouth and a pain he’d never before experienced in his chest; it’s like someone’s gripping a tight hold of his ribs and tries to rip them out of him. He looks down and he sees again, but only how the red eyed person’s not holding Stiles’ ribs with a hand, but with his teeth; desperately trying to get them out. 

The pain of having his chest ripped by a monster makes him fall backwards; finally hitting something. Cold cement ground beneath his fingers. His first instinct is to touch his open chest but the smell of blood almost makes him throw up his guts, so he keeps his finger on the floor, trying to calm himself down (but why, he can’t figure out, since he’s fucking dying). But when he looks up at his friends that suddenly appeared with him in the darkness, all of them are completely wolfed out; including Derek. His red Alpha eyes flares intensely at him, like an intense blood flow and Stiles can finally scream with a sound. Desperately trying to get away from the alpha with his chest ripped open and he can see the older wolf closing in, reaching out to flay him alive.

“Don’t!” he cries, hides his face in trembling hands, shaking like an aspen leaf in a monsoon storm. Derek hesitates above him, breathing deeply through his nostrils; as if to taste Stiles’ flesh through his throat. 

“Please don’t.” The tears from Stiles’ auburn eyes are salty on his tongue and mixed with the taste of copper; make him fight the urge to not gag. If even breathing makes the viscera’s bob dangerously close to the edge, what wouldn’t gagging from the taste of his own body fluids do? Don’t hurt me, he wishes, I’m already dying, what else do you want? 

“What is going on?” he hears Isaac whine in the background. Even if Stiles’ wasn’t bitten, he can still smell the worries in the air. Maybe it’s just his own heartbeats as he’s slowly fading. Anyway, they should be worried. Derek wolfed out on him and bit a hole in his chest, leaving him for death. Why aren’t they calling the ambulance? Or better yet, the cops. Put the murderer in prison; let him rot in a lonely cell. Meanwhile, Stiles will appear as a ghost and laugh at him. Maybe poke him with sticks to annoy the crap out of him. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it. 

“He won’t let me help him up”, Derek says with a frustrated huff. Stiles can’t believe his ears. With his last, shaky breaths, he slowly turns up from his hands to face his murderer among his friends, and says:

“What were you planning to do to me when I stand up, huh?” God, the pain is explicitly tremendous, sending pulses of sharp anguish in the broken nerves. Filling his eyes with more tears that wells over and flows down on his cheeks. His voice is thick of tears but the rest of him is weak; especially as his heart is going into an electrical disturbance; cardiac arrhythmia. The feeling of a panic attack is closing in; anxious pulls in his bones and dizzy sensations in the brain; minus the high pitched heart rate. He’s definitely dying now and his friends are doing nothing. “Steal my leg and chew on it?” he swallows down the blood; feeling sick and helpless. “Serve me as a main course?” 

“What are you talking about?” Derek deadpans, watching him intently.

“This!” Stiles shouts, doing his best to ignore the pain, and gestures his hands crazily around the open wound. “Now please, let me die in peace,” he groans. Any second now. He could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, but it could also be the sun through dirty windows. He’s not sure. Either way, calm is coming around his shuddering body. Or he’s already dead. He’s not sure, again. In fact, he’s not sure about anything. His life is on the edge of ending, and his friends don’t care. Instead, they’re looking at him like a mutter is lost from his brain. Derek probably stole it, like he stole Stiles’ life, like the brutal wolf he really is. Although, that’s just the missing piece of this whole situation which is absurd. Why isn’t he getting any help? Why do they keep staring at him like he’s dumbstruck? He’s not stupid, he’s just dying. Excuse me very much, he thinks in a sigh. 

“Seriously, Stiles. What are you talking about?” Stiles want to punch Derek in the face but in risk of breaking his own hand and receiving more pain, he doesn’t. “You just fell on your back, you’re not dying.” 

“That’s rich, coming from someone who can heal within seconds. You literally chewed a hole in my chest.” More ‘Stiles-are-you-an-idiot’-looks from his so-called friends and his had enough. Screw this; I rather die as someone who tried than someone who huffed his last breath and didn’t. “I am bleeding to death because of your alpha!” he shouts harshly at the three beta’s including Scott. “How could you not see him, he was right there in front of me. How-“abruptly, he stops screaming; interrupting himself. He carefully looks at each werewolf. “You—you can’t see this, can you?” It’s merely a whisper but it’s no problem to them and their super-hearing. 

“See what, Stiles?” Scott asks with a worried look on his face. No, his whole body is speaking a language Stiles’ barely seen before. It proofs is; they can’t see the bleeding hole in Stiles’ chest, the bones of his ribs exposed to the outer world or the intestines. They can only smell his fear. 

“My—my insides.” He takes a deep breath, not sure how to prosper from this. How does anyone prosper from this specific situation? With a laugh; standing abruptly on his feet and chant ‘fools on you!’? Perhaps not. “It didn’t happen, did it?” 

“We’re not sure what you’re talking about, still. But whatever you saw… no, it didn’t happen.” 

“It felt so real,” Stiles whispers. He looks down on his chest and winces. “It is real.” 

“It wasn’t,” Scott promises, not convincingly though, looking uncertain and scared. “It’s not.”

Stiles do not dare to stand up just yet; his chest is still open and bleeding. He’s not dead though. He should be, but he’s not. Feeling dizzy and numb, he closes his eyes and manages to breathe hard; filling his scratched lungs with air. Breathing out and the numbness fades off a bit. So does the pain. He allows himself to look down again, watch his body one last time and he whimpers loudly. Tears flowing over the edge, crashing down on his cheeks. 

“What the hell is going on,” he squeaks, voice thick. His chest is back to normal. No blood, no open wounds. Just his own hands, grasping his hoodie; pulling to see where the hole went. “What the hell is happening to me?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepover, bickering between Stiles and Peter, and sterek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than the previous but I had to write this down.  
> Hope you like it!

Days go by in a slow haze, leaving print marks on the ground that doesn’t fade; only grows bigger and bigger. The sun’s heated rays turn into mild autumn and interacts with the colorful leafs; making it into a game they both will lose. Winter is coming, slowly but safely, it can be sensed in the crispy air. It’s somewhat quiet in the surroundings, apart from a thumping heart; interrupting the peaceful environment. In the middle of the forest, where the trees and moss dominates, where the shy animals hide on instinct; watching with intense eyes. The change is most noticeable there; everything that has green turns red, yellow and brown. The crooked, massive trees take over; meanders towards the sky. 

He’s running; crashing through the air, unravels the ground beneath his feet. Air tear in his chest and lactic acid dwells up in his legs. Breathing heavily with black dots in front of his eyes, he suddenly stops to rest. With wobbly, tired legs, he sits down right on the ground below a tree and rests his back against its bark. While catching his breath he hears the wolfs sprint around him, playing tag and wrestles. 

A hand is suddenly grabbing his shoulder, greeting him back to the world and shouts while disappearing further into the forest: “You’re it!” But he doesn’t move to catch Isaac, figuring there’s no point, so he only snorts and tilts his head back. 

For months now, he’s been forced to follow the pack around at their excursions. _Get to know the forest_ , they say, _come and run with us Stiles_. As if it was a good idea to begin with; forcing an innocent teen to run with a pack of werewolves, with a fettle resembling a dead person. 

“It’s because we’re worried about you,” had Scott explained to him, the other wolfs nodding in agreement. 

They had nothing to worry about, Stiles thought. He’s just been having some strange and disturbing nightmares. Oh, and also hallucinations, slow heart rate, basically no pulse at some point and waking up with blood smeared on his face. No big deal, they can quit worrying. Even if he remembers every single one of them, even the sensations and smells. 

Breathing air in a waking state is more violent than dreaming. It sounds stupid and crazy but it’s also true. He can’t really put his finger on why he thinks that why, just that it’s terrifying and madness but it’s just a dream. Being awake in what his life is now, surrounded by werewolves and other supernatural creatures should be a dream. But it’s not. It’s his life. Therefore, it’s nice knowing that even dreams can be horrible. Because that’s how it used to be; nightmares about running without moving, screaming with no sound, blood dripping from rotting corpses. It’s like taking a break from all the bullshit happening around him, breathing in the sleep. 

He’s been trying to stay away from Derek as much as possible, figuring that his over powered emotions he’s dealing with about a grumpy wolf man, has to be erased. What would the other say if they found out that he had an undying crush for their alpha? They’d look at him strangely every single day for the rest of his life, whispering behind his back and spread rumors like wildfire. And what about the sour wolf himself, then? He’d put on his super uncomfortable emotion and ignore Stiles for the rest of _his_ life. 

He sighs quietly and stands up from the ground, brushing dirt and leafs off his jeans. Scott is by his side now, watching his movements carefully, seeking for any signs of discomfort or pain. He wants to turn is back to the young wolf, wave his hand and just walk to be alone. But as long as the dreams keep happening, he won’t be alone for a second. 

Stiles sighs again, louder this time, bringing the attention from the other wolfs to him. They immediately look worried and Stiles beats himself up on the inside. When will this nightmare end?

 

~*~

 

Apparently not soon, life thought; laughing at Stiles as it passes by in a slow haze. Laughing at him while he’s watching his mother die a thousand times over right in front of him, without being able to run away. She’s reaching out to him, trying to touch his trembling cheek with her cold finger. But she’s too far away, too lost in the wild of her anguishing death. 

And then she dies. 

Every time. 

It’s either fast; complete in two seconds. The first second she’s standing in front of him with either a smile or a scream, the next she’s lying dead on the ground. 

Or it’s slow and painful; her skin being ripped off her fragile bones, the scream from her mouth tears the hearing from his ears. She’s bleeding from her eyes; mixed with salty streams and a hollow sound of ghost-like moaning. Breaking a part in front of him; crumpling into barely visible images, ground into dust. 

And by his side is that traitorous part of him whispering again, silky smooth breaths into his ears. Sending shivers of agony down his spine, ripping him open. Tears are spilling down his cheek and something is clutching onto his chest, holding him closely but painfully so. Trying to shake him awake but he is awoken. The ground underneath his feet are gone and he’s falling, still with the voice in his ear; growling to him.

 _This is all you_. 

And he screams. He screams with the picture of his dying mom in front of his eyes. Screams with fear, anger and panic.

“No!” he bellowed, blood flowing down his throat into his lungs. Suffocating him on the inside, the strong taste of iron making him dizzy. “No!” Rapid heartbeat crushing the inside of his body, shaking joints and cold sweat. _I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying._

 _Stiles_. 

He looks up from his hands which apparently hid his face, looks up to see the voice that talks to him. Angelic and suave. But he knows what’s coming and he can’t do it anymore. He can’t watch her die again in the most horrible way possible. Can’t allow himself to sense the anguishing pain in his chest, like he did as a kid, seeing his mother disappearing before his eyes. 

_Stiles_. 

He wants her to leave, no matter how selfish it makes him sound. Please go. 

“ _Stiles_.” 

The voice is stronger now, more croaky and gravelly, almost growling from its throat. He can still see her, writhing in front of him but there is no sound from her throat. She screams with no words. Just looking at him with dead eyes, slowly getting thinner and more grey against his iris. The sound his hearing is coming elsewhere, from a distant he can’t reach. And there’s this pulling on him, something thumping his cheeks, squeezing his limbs gently but demanding. For the hundredth time, his mother is dead on the ground by his feet, blood seeping from her cracked skull. _This is all you_. A broken sob escapes his mouth, filling him with an emotion resembling hollowness and empty. _Lonely_. 

“Stiles!” 

He’s lonely. He can feel it in his chest; empty on organs. 

“Alone,” he whispers with tears streaming down his face. 

“You’re going to have to speak up to the broken wolfs around you, kid. They’ve been spending an hour trying to waking you up. Big bad wolfs are terrified.” 

Stiles looks up, squints his eyes in the light of the sun burning on his face. 

“Shut up, Peter Pan,” he mumbles, trying to get up on his feet but he’s trapped. “I’m fine.” Trying to support his hand in order to push himself up, he puts it on something warm. A beating heart thumping franatically underneath his fingers. The middle half of his body is being held by a strong arm, as if to prevent him from getting up on his feet. Or comforting him. Whatever the reason, a hot blush is creeping onto his face, painting over the pale color like a mask. Something is swelling inside of him, trapping the air in his throat. Something dark and disgusting, making its way out. 

“You were screaming like a maniac,” Peter continues, ignoring the nickname. “Every single one, except for me because I have a dignity, wolfed out. Derek took the role as a teddy bear. Sorry kid, you’re trapped.” 

_Derek_. 

He’s shaking again but not as violent, more like a soft tremble in a chilly wind. He knows that the wolfs can hear his heart racing, if it’s with anger or lust, he can’t say. But he needs to leave. 

“Let go of me,” he says, still with his hand on Derek’s chest. The warmth fills him with desperate need, swallowing him whole into the darkest pit. But Derek doesn’t move an inch, his arm around Stiles like steel, making it hard to breath. As if it wasn’t already. He can’t allow himself to give into the safety, not with the empty feeling in him. Scared that he might get lost in it forever; the warm body and beautiful, eternal eyes. “Please.” It’s not begging because he’s voice is stiff and on the edge of cracking, not pleading with whispery whimpers. Trying to keep himself intact in Derek’s arms, he turns his head around. 

Derek’s in his wolf form, fangs out and velvet red eyes shining in the sun rays. Staring at Stiles with a wild expression, reading his face as if he’s looking for any kinds of redemption. As if Stiles is going to break in front of him. Which he might, if Derek won’t let go. 

“I’m fine,” he promises to the alpha; waits to let him and the betas listen to his steady heartbeat. 

“Dude, what’s going on with you?” Isaac groans, eyes colored like honey. Stiles turns away from their alpha, feeling his grip loosen around him and stands up quickly; not turning around again. 

“Whatever it is,” Scott says slowly, not waiting for Stiles’ response. “You can’t be alone, not until you’re better.” 

“You think I’m sick, is that it?” Stiles huffs irritably. “You guys think I’m mentally ill? It’s just nightmares; flashbacks of some creepy acid trip sort.” 

“Flashbacks where you think that your chest have been ripped open,” Peter says with a smug look. “Yeah, sounds really sane.”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Stiles turns to him with burning eyes, frustration filling his chest. 

“You told Peter Pan to shut up. I’m as far away from a kid you can come, sugar.” The older man looks to be close to put his tongue out like a mischievous child but don’t. Stiles sighs in frustration. 

“What am I supposed to do then? Have a body guard to walk me around? I’ve basically already had that for months now and it doesn’t help.” 

“Maybe there’s something messing you up at nights,” Boyd speaks up, from being silent for a long time. “We haven’t been around you when sun hit underground. Perhaps that’s the missing piece.” 

“I’m not having a pack of wolfs in my house.” Stubborn as he is, he refuses. Especially now. He’s fine. 

“You can sleep with us in the lair,” the dark skinned wolf suggests, barely smiling when Stiles stares at him in loss of words. But apparently it doesn’t matter because no matter what he’d say, the others would only ignore him. 

 

~*~

 

A full pack of wolfs, including a strawberry blonde banshee and a hunter decorates the lair with mattresses and sleeping bags. It’s darkening outside the windows; a beautiful sunset in east, occupying the sky with rays of pink, fiery orange and steamy red. The creamy clouds fades a little bit more every passing second, and soon they’re completely gone. 

Lydia and Allison is setting the cozy lights, letting the room fall into comfortable dimmer. The air around them smells like pizza and sour cream and onion chips and Isaac is already drinking cola. 

Stiles is leaning against a wall with his arms around his chest, staring at the mess being created. 

“I can’t believe this,” he says out loud, motioning attention from Peter who stands beside him, mirroring Stiles. “A _sleepover_ in the lair.” 

“Would you prefer to camp out?” Peter snorts. “With your skills you’d basically be sleeping with the ants.”

“Hey!” Stiles protests. “Me and Scott used to camp in the forest as kids and we were good at it.” 

“In the forest among werewolves? Brave kids.” 

“Yeah, we were cool,” Stiles agrees, smirking. 

“Or just incredibly stupid.” 

Stiles tastes on those words, trying them out in his head. Remembering the ghost stories he and Scott used to tell each other with a flashlight underneath their faces. They used to pack their bags with useful equipment’s, as in candy, comic books, toothbrushes and toilet paper. Feeling like responsible adults, disappearing from being controlled by restricted life and as much responsibility a kid could possibly have. They could talk about videogames and girls, Scott about Tyra Brendon and him about Lydia, for hours. Falling asleep once they were back in their own beds again. 

“Nah,” he says after a moment. “I think ‘cool’ describes it pretty good.” 

 

~*~

 

He’s laying down in one of the sleeping bags, listening to the pack chattering around him. A fresh smell of orange sweeps through the room as Lydia lit up a scented candle, placing it only a meter away from his face. He smiles gratefully at her, glad that the odor of oily pizza is gone. Closing his eyes, he sees the candle flicker behind his eyelids and it’s spreading a warm sensation through his body. 

Even if he’s mildly annoyed by his friends’ overprotective behavior, he can’t help but nourish the spike of happiness in him. This being his life, he’s happy he’s got people around him that truly cares and does everything they can to help him. Even if the nightmares and flashbacks truly is scaring the shit out of him, he couldn’t ask for a greater life. 

They're blowing out the candles now, he can smell the burning smoke through his nostrils. The lair is completely dark now, except from the city lights outside the windows. Stiles sighs comfortably into the pillow, prepares himself for a long night of disgusting taste of copper and anguishing memories. This is his life for now, he have to get used to it. 

 

When an hour had passed and the pack is heavily asleep, sounds of snoring from Isaac and Scott filling the room, Stiles awakes with a sharp breath. His lungs heaving hard in his chest, taking up any space left in his body. The eyes of his dead mother still fresh in his head, he wipes away left overs of salty, thick tears. This dream was different. He saw her standing in front of him as usual but instead of empty eyes and a screaming, torturing sound from her throat, she was smiling at him lovingly, actually being able to touch his cheek with her fingers. They were cold against his skin, carefully caressing him like she used to do when he was a kid. Putting so much love into a small gesture but it meant the world to him. 

Her hair used to be dark and lustrous with a sheen of fine hardwood but in front of him in that dream, stood a woman with greyed curls. She was still as beautiful as she was before the sickness took her away from him, but there was something dark hidden underneath her smooth skin. A secret she wouldn’t give to him, not even when their time was short. The look on her face told him that she understood, she knew that he could see her veins blacken the longer they stood and looked at each other. 

She talked to him in the dream but he couldn’t hear; just see her lips moving. 

He woke up after seeing her turn into something else; a woman with ashy skin and black, hollow eyes, lips curled into a mean grin. Even if he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t process her words in his mind, he still had a feeling of what her words would be. 

_This is you_. 

So now he was awake, still with his eyes closed. Keeping close control of his breaths, not wanting to breathe too hard in case the wolfs wake up. He can’t deal with talking about it right now. Knowing he needs to sleep to be able to focus, but not wanting to because the next dream he’ll have is a tormenting nightmare, he rolls to his back and looks up on the ceiling. While thinking about everything else but the pain, he feels watched. Turning to his left, he looks at Scott’s sleeping features; nuzzled into a ball. An icy pang of confusion hits Stiles’ mind while staring at his best friend. Happy that none of the others are experiencing what he is but upset that he is. Why him? 

Scott wasn’t the one watching him; his closed eyes didn’t send a shiver through Stiles’ spine. Slowly he turns to the right. Facing him is Derek, his green eyes looking into Stiles’ hessonite. Stiles can’t help but stare at the alpha, not saying a word, only stare. Derek is lying on his back with his face turned, just like Stiles, watching with an uncertain gaze. Not as intense as usual, perhaps a bit shy. They’re both fully dressed, not revealing any skin but Stiles feels completely stripped. 

He rolls onto his side, still with his eyes on Derek, placing his head on his arm, putting his other hand on the cold floor between them. He doesn’t know what this means, doesn’t know what to make out of it. It might be a game played by both; the staring game which he will win. He’s competitive; his mind glows with an winning attitude and honestly, he’s the worst loser. 

After a moment, Derek mimics his movements and rolls onto his side as well. Stiles knows that the werewolf can hear his heart, knows that it thumps with a pleased sound. The wolf moves an inch closer to the teenager, still keeping a distance. So Stiles does the same. 

There is so many things Stiles wants to do but he’s in an restricted area with too much audience. And Derek’s sudden recognition of his existence could mean anything. He’s in fact the alpha, so Stiles’ safety might not be his priority, but he knows he has to. It could also just mean that he heard Stiles wake up with tears in his eyes and tries to comfort him in his way. By staring at Stiles and making him more uncomfortable than before. He’s not complaining though, even if he feels a bit fooled. If getting these nightmares was the only way for the alpha to see him, then he’s not sure if he wants it. 

But when Derek places his hand closely to Stiles’, stroking his fingertips with his own and smiles, Stiles just knows somehow. If warmth was an emotion, he’d be having a lot of those flooding through him at that moment. 

Smiling back, he grabs Derek’s big hand in his own, stroking his soft skin with his thumb. It’s like the happiest dream. But he knows it’s not because he doesn’t have those anymore. Allowing himself to close his eyes with a bit of Derek’s skin against his, he’s being watched over. The second dream he had was indeed a nightmare, but he hasn’t been sleeping better in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughrmrffff. Don't look at me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changed Stiles, boners, fighting and steter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have now changed the main couple from sterek to steter, since I don't ship sterek anymore.  
> There will be NO MORE sterek in this fic (except from a little part and mentions of it, but after this chap, sterek is over).
> 
> I'm so sorry for the delay, I hope you're still with me.  
> School is over soon so I'll have time to write more to this. 
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
>  
> 
> Edited 17/5-15. I had to delete the chapter because everything was in wrong order, I'm not sure why.

Waking up felt like a bliss going through a blender; he groans loudly into the echoing wild around him. With a violent shake of his crackled joints, he sits right up and looks around fidgety. The smell of damp, morning forest is heavy on his tongue; seeping through his wet clothes. Raven quirks into the mist, watching him with intense eyes. He stares back, trying to figure his life out. How did he end up here? Did he sleepwalk without the pack of werewolves hearing his steps? It’s impossible but yet it’s true, because he’s not dreaming. If he were, there’d be more dead bodies and more of his mom dying in front of him. But it feels different, as if his body had grown into the nature; as if he and the trees are one. He is meant to be there, he is meant to be breathing the raindrops into his lungs. The new sensation scares him and he stands up, feet balancing easy on the ground. 

The morning sun hit his face from time to time, looking through the branches. The rays stings in his eyes, watering them irritably. Although, he could also be crying. Morning tears haven’t killed anyone. Except maybe his will, hulking loudly into an echoing forest might attract all kinds of beasts if he doesn’t shut up. So he does; strangling the crying noises in his throat, keeps walking with pained chest and determination. 

There’s definitely a change in him. If he used to be a fruit, his new form would be a smoothie. That was a strange comparison, but he feels a bit shaken to say the least. He keeps walking, lets his feet stir him home. If they want. He’s not sure, but he doesn’t bother to decide the way himself. 

A slight buzz interrupts his quiet forest walk; roaring in his jeans. He hauls his damp phone out of the pocket and answers.

“ _Stiles, where are you?_ ” 

He hesitates. Not because he’s ashamed or scared. Not because he’s most definitely lost. It just doesn’t feel _right_. 

“No, that’s not-“he pauses, suddenly unsure of what he’s supposed to say. “Scott?” 

“ _Are you okay?_ ”

Body is shaking. It all feels wrong. 

“Did you say- what did you call me?” 

“ _Bro, we’re freaking out right now, tell us where you are_.” 

No. No it all feels wrong. He can’t put his finger on what it is but all he knows, while listening to Scott’s concern; he knows he isn’t supposed to leave the forest. Because it’s in his gut, the wrenching feeling when Scott called him- whatever he called him, it feels so wrong. Being here feels right. 

“ _Stiles, come on man, give us a hint_.”

There it is again. Suddenly he snorts, shaking his head. 

“That’s not my name, Scott.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

He falls into a haze of uncertainty. Nothing feels right; it’s in his bones he can tell. Shaking his head more furiously now, as if it all comes down to this. He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t recognize the heated fury. 

“What’s my name, Scott,” he demands, shaking uncontrollably. 

“ _I don’t understand…_ ” 

“ _My name is not_ -“, he starts shouting, seeing red. 

_Stiles._

Twisting around suddenly, searching for that voice. The voice that used to sound so distant and unknown but is to his ears in that moment, very familiar. Looking feverish into the morning light, squinting his eyes as if it makes it easier to find the source. There’s nothing around him. 

_Stiles._

He stops shaking and his fury settles and a wave of calm burns through him instead. It’s like listening to his mother’s lullabies; calming him down to the core. 

“ _Fine, okay, don’t yell_ ,” Scott hitches into the phone. “ _Your name is_ -“

“No, you’re right,” he sits down on a stump that’s completely covered in brightly green moss and rubs his hand over his face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me. It’s Stiles, sorry for worrying you, dude.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m fine though, I promise. I’ll be back in a moment.” 

Before Scott had time to protest, Stiles hung up. 

He starts walking again, knowing that his feet will walk him out of the forest and home. 

_Good boy._

He doesn’t turn around to find the voice again since he knows it’s coming from within him.

 

~*~

 

The first one to push him against the wall when he steps in is Derek. The pureblooded alpha suffocates Stiles’ chest with his left arm and lets his nails dug into the skin on Stiles’ cheek with his right. A part of the shorter boy is feeling mortified, pulse thickening through every beat, but another part loves it and leans further into the manhandling touch. For a long time now, he’s been longing for the elder to push his body close to his. Stiles draws a rushed breath and bare his neck to the wolf. 

“What are you going to do now?” he murmurs huskily. “Are you going to break my nose onto the wall and _fuck_ me from behind?” His own body twitches interestingly to the thought of it and he has to restrain himself to not rut his half hard cock on Derek’s thigh. 

But Derek is reacting differently. He stares at Stiles with an uncomprehend look and tries to find the right words to say.

“Come on, Derek. I know you can tell I want it. That I’ve wanted it for _so long_. You can smell it on me, can’t you?” he whispers into Derek’s ear. “Isn’t that what werewolves do? They smell the lust on someone and the smell drives them _crazy_ , they can’t control it. I’ll be spreading my legs wide for you when you lose it.” 

An amused sound from behind Derek interrupts their moment and Derek pushes away from Stiles immediately, not looking back at Stiles when he disappears. Stiles doesn’t even try to shout at him to come back and fix his boner. Instead he locks eyes with Peter and gives him a look that says ‘is my zipper open?’ and grins. 

“Interesting,” Peter says and follows his nephew into the lair. 

“Shut up, Peterkins,” Stiles calls after him, getting rewarded with a bark of laughter and grins even wider. 

Scott gives Stiles a confused look when he gets into the room where the whole group is, freshly joined by a more-quiet-than-usual-Derek and a smirking Peter. 

“Where were you?” Scott demands to know, following Stiles lazily moving body with his eyes. 

“Somewhere in the forest,” he shrugs his shoulders.

“Is there anything you haven’t told us?” Isaac says suspiciously, folding his arms. 

“And what would that be?” a pang of frustrations shoots through Stiles’ gut when he meets Isaac’s annoying gaze.

“Oh, I don’t know, how you could sneak pass six sleeping werewolves for starters?” Stepping closer to Stiles, his eyebrows furrows closer to each other, giving Stiles a scolded look. 

“If I knew, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?” Stiles doesn’t bother to feel threatened by the wolf minimalizing the gap between them in slow steps, he thinks that the way Isaac is acting towards him is unnecessary and immature. If the wolf boy had any sense in his mind, he wouldn’t feel threatened by Stiles as well. 

“Would you?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Stiles wheezes through his teeth. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Isaac hisses back. “You _know_ we’ve been hearing your extra beat. _We know_ you’ve been lying to us when talking about your dreams. Why have you been lying to us, Stiles? What are you hiding?”

“Not a goddamn thing.”

“There it is again. The heartbeat. _What are you hiding_?”

“ _Nothing_!”

“ _Listen_ ,” Isaac roars, ignoring the rest of the pack trying to calm him down, thinking that he isn’t the issue isn’t him in this room at all. “You can’t hide your lies from us, Stiles, we can _hear them_. I don’t care that you’re having a mental breakdown or if you’re in denial of your mental illness, but coming here and telling me there’s nothing you’re hiding is _bullshit_. What kind of twisted, psychotic things are you up to, that makes you so scared that you can’t tell us about it?” 

Stiles gapes at him, not in shock but in anger. Pure rage is filling him up, almost dwelling over in a dangerous tsunami. Here he was, the other day, thinking he was lucky to have friends that cared about him. But seeing Isaac in front of him, watching the others from the corner of his eyes, he doubts they’re truly there for him. 

“I’m having gruesome nightmares, _every night_. I wake up screaming, I see my mother dying over and over again, I hear someone telling me that the dead bodies is on _me_. Every single night for months now, I’ve smelled the strong scent of blood of the people scattered around me. _I am suffering_ and somehow you’re making this about you.” They’re only inches apart from each other now; Isaac is looking down at Stiles with eyes glowing furiously. “Boo-fucking-hoo, you think you’re being lied to, boo-fucking-hoo, you think I’m a freak, boo-fucking-hoo, you wake up and I’m not there to kiss you good morning. But let me tell you something, Isaac Lahey.” He clutches at Isaac’s shirt, holding the fabric firmly in his fist. “This is not about you. This is not about you thinking I’m a freak. This is about me having _nightmares_.”

Isaac snorts. “No, this is about _you_ not telling the _truth_.”

Stiles groans frustrated and drags Isaac’s face down closer to his face. He hears the others besides them, begging them to stop. But being told that he’s lying when he isn’t, is leaving a burning mark of anger on his heart. “Now, you listen to _me_ , wolf. I am _not_ lying.” He drags the words out, speaking slowly so he’ll understand. But Isaac doesn’t understand. Not one bit.

“There it was again.” 

Stiles has had enough, seeing red for the second time that day, he hits Isaac hard in his stupid face. The beta, who was completely unprepared for it, fell backwards. Stiles was immediately on top of him, hitting him two more times and screaming ‘ _I am not fucking lying!_ into his face, before someone drags him off of the wolfed out boy. He spits and hisses into the air and tries to twist himself free from the grip. 

“Let me go, I’m not fucking lying!” he roars, tries to kick the person behind him.

“I believe you, calm the fuck down,” Peter growls. But Stiles is long gone in anger, hissing like a venomous snake, threatening of poison every single one of them. His arms are hurting from Peter’s bruising grip but he ignores it, all he’s focusing on is the thought of having Isaac’s blood on his hands. 

On the other side of the room is Derek holding Isaac in an equal tight grip, his alpha eyes warningly red. Isaac is wolfed out, fangs biting the air to mock Stiles, a smug grin spreading across his sore face. A faint thought presses through Stiles, filling him with black darkness. _I want him dead._ And suddenly he grins too, watching Isaac with an evil expression. 

“What’s going on, dude, and don’t lie,” Scott pleads, stepping in front of Stiles. 

Stiles is limp in Peter’s grip, pushing into the warmth of the older man. He sighs loudly at Scott. “Oh my God. Listen real closely to me now, my handsome manfriend, _I am not lying_ and I’m fine.” 

“You are _clearly_ not fine,” Scott exclaims, looking deeply offended. “You’re having nightmares, you disappear into the forest in the night, you come back and you’re acting weird towards Derek and now you’re trying to beat the shit out of Isaac. What the _hell_ is going on?” 

“I am just so fucking sick of you guys,” he groans. Ignoring Scott’s hurt look. “You think I’m a freak, you think I’m having mental problems. That I’m _mentally sick_. That I’m a _psychopath_. I am so sorry for having a couple rough months, I am sorry for worrying you but why does my issues have to do anything with you? Why do you feel the need to watch every single step I take and call me a _liar_? I am _not_ lying to you. I have no idea why I’m having these dreams. But whatever reason, you don’t have to fucking follow every inch of a step I take.”

“But you’re pack and-,” Scott tries, his voice hitting the ground. 

“So what? Don’t you think that maybe, _maybe_ I’m having these dreams because being in this pack where shit happens all the time, is making my head explode of stress and anxiety? Never thought of that, have you?

“And I haven’t been acting weird towards Derek. It’s most likely the other way around.” He meets Derek’s eyes, which are confused and a bit taken aback. “Oh, please. I’ve been longing for you to notice me in another way than irritation for a long time now. Yesterday was the _first time_ you looked at me with kind eyes. But I came to a realization today though. I am _done_. I’m done with tailing after you like a lost puppy, done with having my day made whenever you accidentally brushes past me and our clothes touch. I am _sick_ of getting shouted at whenever I’m doing a tiny mistake. ‘ _Stiles what the hell are you doing, Stiles if you don’t listen I’ll turn you, shut up Stiles_ ’. 

Yesterday, I thought you were being kind because you actually cared. But you don’t, do you? I am just pack. That’s all I am to you, a part of your rotting pack. But let me just get this clear, once and for all; I am done. I’m not a part of your pack anymore.” 

It’s quiet for a long time, the betas are whining worryingly. Stiles is holding his gaze with Derek who aren’t wolfed out anymore, he’s only looking at Stiles with a confused expression. Also a bit hurt, Stiles could tell but he didn’t care. Now he know how Stiles have felt. 

Peter’s grip have loosened around him so Stiles twists himself free and starts walking away, no one follows him and for that, he’s glad. But before he gets closer to the door, he hears Erica tell him:

“This is why we’re worried about you, Stiles. You went from zero to hundred just over night.” 

 

~*~

 

He sleeps worryingly in his own bed that night, twisting and kicking the sheet out of the bed, screaming into his pillow. The fabric underneath him is drinking his sweat and sticks to his body like fly paper. His dad had been with him a couple of times, begging him to talk about it but Stiles is only shutting him down. His through with talking about it to people who only wants to put him in Eichen House. So he dreams alone that night, watching his mother twitch into a puddle of blood and hears that voice whisper icily in his brain; _this is all you, this is all you, this is all you_. 

Until he woke up, sitting straight up; hunted eyes watching the shadows that are dancing around the streetlight’s shining lights. Staring at it with confusion, not knowing how he ended up there. But figuring that he probably sleepwalked, or ran, through a dream. But ending up somewhere in the middle of the night is new, he usually wakes up when the morning sun hit the sky. 

Rising to his feet, feeling wobbly and unsure of his body, he looks around. Already knowing he’s alone though, he still feels the common sensation of being watched. Perhaps there’s someone staring at him through a window, feeding on his tired confusion between lazily drawn curtains. 

After walking a couple of minutes, he came to the realization that he suddenly stood outside a door, ringing the bell. Hesitantly, he takes a step back, preparing to run but something in him is tugging him closer with wanting. When the person the other side of the door is opening with a surprised look on his face, Stiles wonders why he hadn’t been there earlier. 

“Stiles?” Peter is standing by the doorstep dressed in just boxer briefs, leaving nothing to imagination. A hot blush creeps on Stiles’ face and he wishes that it’s too dark for Peter to see, but according to the man’s grin, it’s not. 

“I need your help,” Stiles says without saying it, he doesn’t know where the words come from; they’re just there; slipping from his tongue. He restrains himself gravelly to not dance his gaze further down on Peter’s body. 

For a moment, they’re just looking at each other and Stiles wonders if Peter knows. If he knows why Stiles is there, because he himself doesn’t. 

“What can I help you with?” Peter is still grinning and Stiles continue to blush. 

“Can I come in?” he mutters.

“Of course, your majesty,” Peter steps aside enough for Stiles to be able to squeeze through, but not enough for their bodies to not touch. “That was a comeback for all of your stupid nicknames, if you didn’t catch it.” 

“First of all, they’re not stupid. Second of all, I quiet like the sound of ‘your majesty’.” 

Peter snorts. “Don’t get used to it.” He locks the door and follows Stiles into his house. 

“ _You_ should.” The house is mostly dark, except for a couple lamps with cozy light on the ceiling in the living room. On the low glass table, he sees a glass with some dark liquor in it. Probably expensive whiskey. 

“You want some?” Peter surges up behind him, breathing hot air on the back of Stiles’ neck. He chuckles when Stiles stops breathing, and sits down on the couch with his arms on the backrest, legs spread invitingly, still in his boxer briefs. When Stiles nods, he pats the cushion besides him. Stiles motions closer and sits down dangerously close to the older man. Their thighs are touching and the heat from Peter’s naked skin is burning through Stiles’ jeans. “On your knees, turned to me.” Stiles obeys and sits on his knees with his front turned to Peter, the man smiles wickedly at him. He opens his mouth and let Peter feed him the strong liquor from the glass and swallows every ounce of burning taste. When finished, Peter puts down the glass and turns his head up, watching Stiles from underneath. 

“I’m not sick,” Stiles says suddenly, breaking the moment. Peter blinks at him, loss of words. “I mean, I know something’s wrong with me, I’m not in denial. But I’m not sick.” He slumps his shoulders, trembling a bit. “I know the other’s don’t trust me. They want to put me in Eichen House.” 

“Did they tell you that?” 

Stiles isn’t looking at Peter now, he’s trying to control his anger that’s sweeping in him. “No. But I can see it on them. The way they’re looking at me, it’s not for my own good. It’s for their.” He’s fighting so hard to not let the tears flow free, to burn down his cheek like acid. “And I’m not lying; I don’t know why they keep saying that.” 

“I believe you,” Peter says slowly, playing with the hem on Stiles’ t-shirt between his fingers. He’s quiet for a while; not watching Stiles as they boy’s breath is hitching. “But you _are_ lying.” He interrupts Stile as the gaping boy tries to protest. “I don’t think that you’re not telling the truth, I’m just saying that there is an extra heart beat in you. It just means that a part of you knows about the lies and the other don’t.” 

“I don’t understand,” Stiles whispers, leaning into Peter’s fingers when they travels underneath his shirt, caressing his soft skin. He buries his face in Peter’s neck, breathing unevenly. The warmth from Peter’s hand on his frozen skin is sending electrical pulses straight to his heart; filling him up with comforting fire in a way he’d never experienced before. Who knew that a homicidal maniac could make a torn boy feel so loved? 

“Perhaps understanding is not a part of it, but accepting it is,” Peter murmurs, shifting a bit so that Stiles could bury himself on his body completely. Stiles whines softly in his ear when Peter lifts his body with one arm and place him on the man’s lap, with his front faced to him. “What did you need my help with?” Peter asks while watching Stiles tremble when he’s groping the boy’s jeans, smirking at his attempts to not fall apart into the sensation. Stiles wanted to, he wanted to be devoured by Peter touching him, and he wanted to give in to the struggle. But that’s not why he’s here. 

“I need you to tie me up,” he choked out, pressing his half hard crotch into Peter’s hand. Peter made a noise, a low growl from his throat, looking at Stiles with a surprised face. “In a non-sexual way.” 

“How boring,” Peter sighs but looks amused. He lifts the boy off him and disappears further into the house. “What’s the occasion?” he calls from another room. 

“So that I don’t sleepwalk.”

Peter comes out with ropes and waves at an empty chair by the table. Just as Stiles sits down, Peter starts tying him to it, not too hard but not too loose. “Whatever’s up with you, you got pass six sleeping werewolves without making a sound. Don’t you think that you have the ability to slip through these knots as well?”

“That’s why you have to be awake.” Stiles grins weakly at Peter’s defeated face. 

“Great.” He’s quiet for a while, inspecting his work. “This is very teasing.” 

“You love it.”

“I do. But I hate the words ‘in a non-sexual way’ coming out from your mouth,” Peter murmurs, pressing a feathery light kiss on Stiles’ neck, licking the goosebumps on his skin. 

“Next time,” Stiles groans and tries to shift in the chair to not have his hard on pressed against his chafing jeans. Peter is sucking on his skin now; biting gently, marking him. He allows the tied up boy to lean his head on his shoulder, gasping heavily. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Waiting for you to come to your senses, this whole Derek situation was driving me insane.” 

“Never again,” Stiles moans, trembling into the ropes.

“Good.” He’s marking Stiles all over; under his ear, further down the neck and throat. “Mine.” 

A violent shudder goes through his body, stealing his breath and sucking the strength out of him. White dots are dancing before his eyes, grinning wickedly at him. An embarrassing blush shows up on his pale cheeks and he huffs with a frustrated sound. Peter chuckles and sits down in the couch again, ignoring Stiles’ pleads of getting changed. Stiles sighs and closes his eyes, lets the tired wave of sleep crash through him and hopes that Peter will forget that he came untouched. But he knew that the man would tease him about it for an eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psssst,  
> I don't think that people with mental illnesses are freaks.  
> Love you all.


End file.
